Chapter 12
The cake is delicious.
Creamy, smooth icing dusted with sugar, a spongy center bright and bursting with lemon zest. Marlowe is almost a better baker than she is a chef.
I savor each bite as my friends stand and sing “Happy Birthday,” the menacing attic scene in The Birds rolling along the back wall.
Everyone eats their cake in silence, eyes glued to the final frames of the film.
Once the credits begin, Ava stands at the head of the table.
“For the next movie, we’ll venture to the cinema,” she announces. “Feel free to relax and enjoy the film. Evelyn has also permitted us to explore the various rooms of the house. It’s absolutely stunning.”
It makes me uncomfortable giving the guests free rein in the house. I forget Marmee used to host fabulous parties here in her youth, and probably delights in her home being on display once more.
Our group treks upstairs, one after the other. My heart still flutters each time I enter this room, see its massive screen and iconic posters.
Damien pauses to admire my book cover, newly framed and on display. “What’s this?”
“Something I published earlier this year,” I say.
“You wrote a book?” He acts surprised.
“Yes, and it’s absolutely fantastic,” Marlowe says. “Riddled with cinema history.”
“It must have cost a fortune to build a theater inside a house this old,” he says, admiring the gilded frames around the posters.
“The sentimental value is priceless,” I say. “My love of movies started here.”
Marlowe and Damien settle into recliners in front of the massive screen. Preston and Constance meander over to the snack bar to retrieve red-and-white-striped containers of buttery gold popcorn. Ava places the remainder of the cake beside them alongside paper plates in the shape of movie reels.
“You’ve really outdone yourself,” Constance says.
“You can’t have a movie without snacks.” Ava beams before she starts fiddling with the projector.
“What’s the second movie?” I ask.
“Psycho,” she says. “Is that too predictable?”
“I think it’s perfect,” I say, reaching for two plates, “but I am going to give Marmee some dessert before it gets too late.”
“Sure. We’ll be wandering around.” Ava winks, hooking her arm into Preston’s. “There might be a few more surprises up my sleeve.”
After dinner, dessert, and a second movie, there can’t be much left on Ava’s itinerary. I flick off the lights just as the opening credits fill the screen.
Marmee’s wing of the house looks no different than it did when I was a child.
There’s the same delicate gray and olive green wallpaper trimmed with dark wainscoting.
Heavy rugs in colorful patterns dress the floors.
Like all the bedrooms on the second floor, Marmee’s has a small balcony overlooking the crow fountain below.
As I enter the room, I see the door is open, an evening breeze blowing back the lace curtains covering the windows.
I approach the balcony, assuming Marmee has gone outside, when her voice startles me from behind.
“Shouldn’t you be with your friends?”
I turn to find Marmee sitting in one of her armchairs. Mrs. Wilson sits across from her. The two look as though they were deep in conversation.
“Why is the balcony door open?” I ask Marmee. “The doctor said you shouldn’t be out there alone.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Mrs. Wilson says. “I wouldn’t let Evelyn do anything to hurt herself.”
“I know,” I say, placing the slices of cake on the coffee table between them. “I just worry.”
“Well, I’m right here,” Marmee says. “We opened it so we could enjoy the evening breeze.”
I shut the door and lower the latch. Marmee has never been the type to be satisfied following rules.
Lately, she’s suffered from debilitating bouts of vertigo; her entire care team agrees it’s too risky for her to be outside on her own, even if it’s her own balcony.
I don’t like the idea of her being tempted.
“How’s your party?” Marmee asks.
“I feel guilty having you cooped up here all night,” I confess, “so I brought you both some cake.”
“You know that’s against her diet,” Mrs. Wilson says.
“It’s only a small piece,” I say.
Marmee laughs. “Another rule breaker. I wonder where she gets it?” She leans forward to grab the napkin and unfurl it on her lap. “A few bites won’t hurt. And you’ll have to give Marlowe my compliments over the lamb. Cooked to absolute perfection.”
“She’s the best.”
“Well, I’m officially off duty for the weekend,” Mrs. Wilson says. She pushes on her knees as she stands. “I’ll be sure to lock up before I head out.”
“You won’t be here in the morning?” I ask. Mrs. Wilson is as crucial to this house as electricity.
“I’m visiting family,” she says, looking at Marmee. “She insisted there would be enough people here to take care of her for the weekend.”
“I’ll be just fine,” Marmee says. “Enjoy your time off. You deserve it.”
Mrs. Wilson bends down to give Marmee a hug before grabbing her slice of cake. She gives me a little wave as she leaves the room.
“Lovely costume,” Marmee says, turning her attention to me, a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice. “Did you pick it?”
“Ava,” I say, readjusting the damned crow on my shoulder. “It’s absurd, isn’t it?”
“A bit garish, but it’s only for the night. It’s thoughtful your friends wanted to have a party in your honor.”
“I hope the party won’t last much longer,” I say.
In our younger years, my friend group was known for partying until the wee hours of the morning, but we’re getting older.
Nothing sounds more appealing than an early night in.
“You know, I could ask people to leave. Everyone could hail Ubers to take them home.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
I can’t tell her the truth, which is that the birthday card from Oliver is still on my mind. Or that the petty drama between my friends is getting on my nerves.
“Maybe it would be more fun if it was just the two of us.”
“Your friends have gone through a lot of trouble to be here,” she says. “Appreciate them.”
I walk toward her, bending down to kiss the top of her head. She squeezes my hand, her skin dimpled and cold to the touch.
“Could you do me one favor before leaving?”
“Sure.”
“Pop into the library and select a book. Reading makes it easier for me to sleep.”
“Any particular title?”
“Surprise me. Your taste in books is as great as your taste in movies,” she says. “I’m sure I won’t be disappointed.”
“I’ll try my best,” I say, then exit her bedroom and walk past the cinema to the end of the hall.
The library is any book lover’s dream. Sturdy bookshelves line the walls around the room.
A leaning ladder with wheels at the bottom rests against the far collection.
Several armchairs are scattered in the center of the room around a glass coffee table.
I walk to one of the closest shelves, selecting a mystery written by one of Marmee’s favorite authors.
A large desk sits in front of the French doors leading to the balcony, which provides an excellent view of the back patio and rolling hills beyond. The door is slightly ajar. I walk across the room and fasten the latch.
As I’m passing the writing desk, something catches my attention.
Another envelope with my name on it. My first thought is that it must be a card or gift from Marmee, but then I take in the elaborate handwriting, the exaggerated loops of the letter P.
It’s almost identical to the birthday card I received earlier. The one from Oliver.
This can’t be. My shaking hand reaches for the envelope, hoping that the next blink will bring clarity, proof I’m not actually seeing what’s in front of me.
There’s a piece of paper inside. I slide it out, inspecting the thick cardstock with laser focus.
It reads: Are you going to tell any of them the truth about us?
As I read the words, I hear Oliver’s voice in my head, that deep comforting tone morphing into something menacing. His presence is all around me. For a moment, I think I get a whiff of his cologne.
The front doorbell bellows, the sound so unexpected, I jolt.
The book in my hand falls to the floor. Marmee installed a system years ago that ensures no matter where you are in the house, a resounding baritone boom will alert you to someone’s arrival.
It sounds like a mallet has struck a massive gong right beside my ear.
Once I’ve caught my breath, I look between the note in my hands and the door leading to the hallway.
The tall grandfather clock across from me says it’s after nine o’clock.
A second message from Oliver. Another unexpected guest. What the hell is going on?
The same feeling of imminent dread I experienced after receiving the first letter returns.
As I exit the library, still carrying the note, I turn in the direction of the stairwell. My friends’ voices carry, but it’s hard to determine their whereabouts. Some echo from the cinema, others linger from downstairs. One of them must be going to see who’s here.
“Tippi?”
Marmee calls to me from her bedroom. I look back at the stairwell one more time, wondering what’s unfolding downstairs, before entering her room.
“Tippi,” Marmee repeats when she sees me. “Did I hear the doorbell?”
“I think so,” I say, trying not to show how agitated I am.
“I thought everyone had arrived.”
“I did, too.” I clench my jaw, handing over the book she asked me to retrieve. “Marmee, were you in the library earlier tonight?”
“No, but I’ve heard people up and down the stairs all night. I told Ava people were allowed to tour the house.”
My chest caves as I turn away from her, trying to hide myself.
If people are allowed to roam as they please, anyone could have slipped that note into the library.
There could be someone else here, another visitor yet to be seen.
My mind conjures an image of the intruder in my apartment, his balaclava concealing his identity.
A voice rises from downstairs. Another person in the house who wasn’t here earlier. The sensory overload I experienced in the library returns, an unavoidable sensation that Oliver is near.
“Tippi, is everything all right, dear?” Marmee asks.
“Fine,” I say, backing out of the room. “Try to get some sleep.”
An unexpected guest has arrived.